The Jigsaw Puzzle
Illustration
Stories
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Jigsaw Puzzle" by Argile Smith
"Unanswered Questions" by Craig Kelly
"Shepherds Camping in the Neighborhood" by Sandra Herrmann
"Walking With the Crabs" by Keith Hewitt
"Go Giants!" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
This is a special time -- the culmination of the Advent period of waiting and the coming of the miracle of the Incarnation. In so many ways, it's a season of wonder -- marveling at the power of the Word made flesh, pondering about the meaning of it all, astonishment at the seeming impossibility of a such a history-shaping event emerging from a tiny stable... and yet, rejoicing with the angels and all of creation at the birth of a little child. In this edition of StoryShare, we offer a mosaic of reflections from a variety of perspectives. Argile Smith likens the emerging clarity of the Messiah's coming to that of a jigsaw puzzle -- at first we are presented with many pieces that don't seem to fit together, but eventually we get the full picture as we see how it all fits together. Craig Kelly portrays the prophet Isaiah's protective older brother, who has many questions about his younger sibling's strange calling. He journeys to see Isaiah and hopes to talk some sense into him -- only to find that he leaves with the most important unanswered question of all echoing through his head. Sandra Herrmann uses her experiences of camping outdoors to remind us of what the shepherds' existence was like and to underline what unlikely candidates they were to worship the newborn King. Keith Hewitt shares his personal odyssey of adopting a child from Russia (including a return on Christmas Eve) to demonstrate the presence of God at all times and places, and David McKirachan wryly compares the overwhelming joy of Christmas to the heartstopping thrill of victory (Go Jesus!). We hope your season is filled with that sense of unbridled joy, and we at CSS wish you the merriest of Christmases.
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The Jigsaw Puzzle
by Argile Smith
Luke 1:26-38; Psalm 89
Laura and her grandmother Nan had been working on the jigsaw puzzle for days. Ever since Laura was old enough to comprehend the challenges of assembling a jigsaw puzzle, she and her grandmother had been working on them together. They shared a common passion for taking the little pieces of strangely cut cardboard and placing each of them in just the right place in order to produce a picture. And, of course, they shared the satisfaction that they had finished a daunting project together, which was always the best part of the entire effort.
As they got better at their joint effort, they came to measure the difficulty of the jigsaw puzzle by the number of pieces in the box and the scene to be reconstructed. Sometimes the scene made the puzzle easy to put together. That's why they really didn't prefer the easy puzzles. They liked the hard-to-figure-out scenes. So far, their favorite scene had been an autumn scene with a covered bridge in the center.
A couple of weeks before the Thanksgiving holiday, Nan found a puzzle at a yard sale that caught her eye. She knew that it would present a huge challenge for her and Laura, but not just because it contained 2,000 pieces. The scene had lots of blue sky with sparse clouds that displayed subtle hues of white and gray mixed together against the mammoth backdrop of various versions of blue. The sky reflected its colors in a mountain lake that covered the bottom of the scene. A thin horizon graced only with a few trees and hills separated the sky from the lake.
Nan knew that she had to have it for yet another reason: the box already had been opened. She didn't know for sure if all of the pieces of the puzzle were actually in the box. Just for good measure, the assurance of the high degree of difficulty was confirmed by a statement that the previous owner made after Nan purchased it. "Good luck on putting that thing together," she said with a note of warning. "I tried for weeks but didn't get anywhere."
She told Laura about the puzzle she had found, and soon the two of them got started on it. They quickly found out that it proved to be just as difficult as Nan had anticipated. Days passed without any sure signs of progress. The music on the radio in Nan's living room had changed from instrumental favorites to Christmas classics before any significant progress could be noticed by either of them.
Listening to the music helped both of them to focus on their work. But one day it distracted Laura as she made another futile attempt at pushing a piece of the puzzle into place so the border of the puzzle would be completed. The song on the radio was "O Little Town of Bethlehem," and the words in the song had gotten next to her.
So she asked Nan, "What's the big deal about Bethlehem and baby Jesus? The whole story sounds like a fairy tale to me."
Nan replied, "You don't think that Jesus was born in Bethlehem?"
"Yes, I think he was, but it's all so random. I mean, out of nowhere a baby was born to a girl who had never -- you know -- and someone said he was God's Son. It's a nice story and all, but I just don't get it."
"I see your point," Nan said. "But actually it was far more than a random act. For generations God had told his people that he would send his Messiah. You can see here and there in the Old Testament little bits and pieces of his promise. When the angel talked to Mary about Jesus' birth, he helped her to see that she would give birth to the Messiah God promised."
Nan went further in her explanation. "You see, it's a lot like this jigsaw puzzle. Some of the pieces don't seem to fit, and we can't yet figure out how it's going to turn out. But one day the pieces will fall into place, and we will get the full picture."
The psalmist hinted at the arrival of the Messiah (Psalm 89), and the angel promised Mary that it would happen (Luke 1:26-38). Advent gives us a chance to see the scene of redemption after all of the pieces have been placed in the puzzle.
Argile Smith is vice president for advancement at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He previously served at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (NOBTS) as a preaching professor, chairman of the Division of Pastoral Ministries, and director of the communications center. While at NOTBS, Smith regularly hosted the Gateway to Truth program on the FamilyNet television network. He has also been the pastor of several congregations in Louisiana and Mississippi. Smith's articles have been widely published in church periodicals, and he is the author or editor of four books.
Unanswered Questions
by Craig Kelly
Romans 16:25-27
Now to him who is able to strengthen you according to my gospel and the preaching of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages but has now been disclosed and through the prophetic writings has been made known to all nations, according to the command of the eternal God, to bring about the obedience of faith -- to the only wise God be glory forevermore through Jesus Christ! Amen.
-- Romans 16:25-27
I must have turned around a dozen times on that trip. I would turn my donkey and start heading back home, but I would maybe get half a mile when my resolve would return, and I'd turn back to continue my journey.
I had better things I could be doing. I had flocks and herds waiting for me back home. My wife and children were home, holding everything together while I was away. There was no reason for me to make this trip.
But he was my little brother.
As the eldest, I guess I've always felt responsible for him. I would always watch out for him, driving away bullies who would taunt him. Even as we grew into adulthood, I still felt the need to look after that brother of mine.
One day, he was the same old person that I had always known. Then, as if in an instant, he had changed. He began talking of visions, of hearing the voice of God himself. At first, I thought he was playing a joke on me -- one in very poor taste, but a joke nevertheless. I just thought he would admit the truth eventually and be done with it.
That day never came. He just kept insisting that he was hearing from God, and that he had messages from him to deliver. Soon, he was out on the street or in the synagogue, speaking to anyone who would listen. People began mocking him, calling him a madman and a fool. It was so shameful, so disgraceful. Even I, his overprotective brother, began to shun him. I couldn't bear the thought of what he was doing to our family. It still shames me to think that I couldn't stand by my own brother.
Over time, there were some who still mocked him, but others started to take what he had to say more seriously. He even started attracting attention from the king himself, and the king was becoming very displeased with what he was hearing. My brother's very life was in danger, and still he continued prophesying.
That's why I had to see him. I had to convince him to stop. I had to try to protect him again.
It took some investigating, but I was able to find out where he was hiding. After two days travel, I finally reached the small village where he was staying. Now I would finally set him straight.
I approached a small house on the outskirts of the village, dreading the upcoming confrontation. As I was admitted and led to the back of the house, I carefully laid out my arguments in my mind as to why this all had to stop.
I entered a small room where I saw my brother hunched over a scroll, writing. As he wrote, he spoke the words softly, as if he were reciting words given by someone else.
"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shined. You have multiplied the nation; you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as they are glad when they divide the spoil. For the yoke of his burden, and the staff for his shoulder, the rod of his oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian. For every boot of the tramping warrior in battle tumult and every garment rolled in blood will be burned as fuel for the fire. For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."
As I heard the words, I just stood in silence. It was beautiful. But where was this coming from? What this really from God? There was nothing like this in all of Israel; how could he just come up with all of this on his own?
I must have made a sound because my brother quickly turned around to see who was in the room. His face brightened when he saw me.
"Joash! Is it really you?"
"It's been a long time, Isaiah."
Quickly he rose to greet me. "Peace be with you, my brother!"
"Peace be with you, brother. I had come to try to dissuade you from your prophesying, but after hearing those words, I found myself just standing there confused. My mind is filled with questions. What is all of this, Isaiah? How are you doing all of this? I can't begin to understand any of it."
Isaiah chuckled. "Well, truth be told, brother, I really don't understand all of it either. There are times when God will speak to me or give me a vision and I will truly understand it -- or at least I will think I truly understand it. Given the corruption in Israel, it makes sense to me that God is angry and that retribution will come. But there are other times when God will simply impress upon me to just write or speak the words he gives me."
"But you write these words as if they have already happened! You write them as if they are as solid and sure as the walls around us! No wonder people think you're mad!" I raised my hands, exasperated.
"But Joash," Isaiah softly replied, "they are real. God himself has spoken. If he has made a promise, we can be as sure of it as we are that the sun will rise in the morning. We must have faith, brother."
"How do you know? What makes you so sure that it is God speaking to you?"
Isaiah paused, considering his response. "I can't give a reasonable answer to that. But as sure as I live and breathe, I know that the God of Israel has spoken to me. I know his words are true."
I sighed and leaned back against the wall. "Fine, Isaiah, fine. Let's say it really is God. What does all of this mean? What child do you speak of? Whose son is he? How is he both son and father? When will all of this happen?" I could have continued, but I think he got the point. My brother just sat and stared back at me. "You can't answer me, can you?"
"No," he replied. "I simply know that it will happen, that there will be a day when all the mysteries will be revealed, when all the questions will be answered. I pray we may live to see it, but even if we don't, I know that day will come."
I knew at that moment that I could say no more to him. There was really nothing more to say. I wished him well and left him to continue his work.
Since then, nothing has changed. We're still under a king who cares more about wealth and power than about God or the people. There has been no son born to lead us into peace; things are the same as always. I think back on Isaiah's words, and for the most part, I dismiss them as the rantings of a man with an overactive imagination. But I can still see his face, his eyes filled with a quiet assurance, and I find myself thinking, "What if he was right?"
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
Shepherds Camping in the Neighborhood
by Sandra Herrmann
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
I love the way Eugene Peterson phrases the situation of the shepherds: "There were sheepherders camping in the neighborhood. They had set night watches over their sheep." It puts their situation in terms many of us understand -- the difficulties of camping out.
In my young adulthood, my husband and I loved to camp. In fact, our honeymoon was an entire summer, between college graduation and the start of graduate school. We had never been camping before, but we decided this was the way we wanted to spend the 12 weeks available. So off we went to learn what we would need: a 10 x 12 cottage-style tent; two air mattresses; two sleeping bags that could also be zipped together for cozy evenings; a camp stove with all the requisite pots, pans, and utensils; a lantern; a large hard-sided cooler with a locking top (in case of bears, raccoons, and other wildlife used to foraging from humans); plates, as well as knives, forks, and spoons; and some good hiking boots. When we had all that, we packed up and headed for the woods.
What I was not prepared for was how difficult it is to keep clean when you're camping. Oh yes, there are shower rooms, a bit shaggy from the constant use, but we had to go to the pump to get drinking water and had to heat water on the stove to do the dishes. And those shower rooms are often cold, so you have to be brave to take off your clothes and step under the water, not to mention drying off afterward.
And then there are the vagaries of weather. At one point, we seemed to be crossing Canada at precisely the same rate as a rather nasty thunderstorm we had picked up in Nova Scotia. For a week we had to fold up a wet tent and load everything into the trailer in varying states of wetness. By the end of the week, the tent was smelling a bit dank. And so were we. Happily, in 20th-century Canada we could (at last!) pull into a laundromat and see to it that everything was clean and dry. And since I had had all the fun I could take for a while, we could also rent a room and sleep on a real bed, and stand under a shower that never ran out of hot water.
That was not the case with the shepherds of Jesus' day. No hot water unless you build a fire. No shower stalls, fluffy towels, and aromatic shampoos. No dryer to see to it that your clothes are both dry and smelling fresh. And that's not to mention the sheep you sleep next to! The lanolin in their wool keeps their skin fairly dry, but wet wool on the hoof has a pungent odor not to be forgotten.
In short, the shepherd's life was not a clean one. There were times when they might camp near a quiet river (sheep are terrified of fast-running water), and then they would put up their tents and spread carpets on the ground, sometimes in layers to cushion them from rocks and clots of clay. Then they might have the opportunity to bathe.
But most likely, the shepherds who showed up at the cave where Mary and Joseph and the baby were sheltered smelled of the wood of their campfires and the garlic with which they seasoned their simple evening meal. Their clothes probably bore the rents and tears from thorn trees in which sheep are easily caught as they graze, not to mention the cockleburs that would adhere to the hems of their robes as they walked along. Probably there were muddy stains from the riverbank and spots from where they accidently dropped a bite or two of food on their clothes. And of course there would be the earthy, even musky, smell of the sheep. All of these smells would be a normal part of life to those who sleep in tents or caves most nights of the year.
Add to that the fact that most shepherds were boys in the age range of 8 to 14. There might be two or three grown men (20-25) to circulate around the sleepy herds, but most of the shepherding was done by boys. Past that age, most boys would be apprenticed out. Some, of course, would learn how to shear sheep and clean the wool for sale. Others would learn how to do the butchering, both to eat and to sell at market. The hardest, muddiest, dirtiest part of making a living with the family herd was left to the boys, who had to learn how to fend off wild dogs and wolves and the various other dangers that threaten disaster for your sheep.
So here come the shepherds -- the dirty, curious, feisty, street-smart kids who mind the sheep, but for whom the invitation of the angels was a powerful draw... leaving the sheep in a cave or stone circle, watched by someone who had to be mature enough to be left behind when this magical event of meeting angels took place. Here they come, pushing and shoving for a glimpse of a baby who is Messiah, the Lord. Here they are, the dirty, the childish, the curious, pushing each other to get to see a girl not much older than they are nurse her baby. What a motley crew. What a choice God made, sending a personal invitation by messengers from Heaven to this bunch.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
Walking With the Crabs
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 96
A long time ago, when I was young, issues of a certain men's magazine used to find their way into my possession on a regular basis. I, of course, cherished them for the interviews, articles, and cartoons. One cartoon that has stuck with me over the decades is set in heaven: there are two angels talking to one another on a street corner, with the pearly gates in the background, and in the foreground there is a man with flowing white hair and beard crab-walking across the street. One angel is saying to the other, "What do you know, He really does move in mysterious ways."
I think of that cartoon every now and then when I contemplate how God has crab-walked through my life.
For instance, after my wife and I had decided to adopt internationally, there was the night -- the culmination of many discussions -- when we went to bed having decided to adopt from India. The next day I had an uneasy feeling that it wasn't the right decision, and that we should go to Russia instead. When I called my wife, reluctantly ready to open the discussion again, her first reaction was to say, "You know, I had the same feeling."
With the decision made, the next step was to sift through dozens of dossiers -- well, summaries -- of children, and watch dozens of them on tape, looking for the right one. Looking at medical histories, ages, and such we were led to three, then to one -- and it was only after we had decided, after we isolated an image from the tape, put it on the refrigerator, and started showing it to people, that someone pointed out how much he looked like our daughter at that age. And as the years have gone by, his similarity to others in the family has only grown.
Then, of course, there was the journey itself -- a comedy of errors, I suppose you could call it, but it would have been a dark comedy, at least at the beginning. Between flights delayed, flights canceled, and a flight to an airport we shouldn't have gone to, it looked very much as though we would not be getting out of the country, not on that trip... but suddenly the ways parted, and an assistant station manager for Aeroflot found a way for us to complete the journey. (This was no small feat, as we had been told for hours that there was nothing anybody could do.) Had we failed to make it then, the chain of events that followed in the beginning of 2000 might have made it impossible for us to get there, and bring our son home, for a year or more... and a year is a long time to wait in a Russian orphanage.
Instead, though, we were back from Russia on Christmas Eve of 1999 -- home in time to drive from restaurant to restaurant, fast-food place to fast-food place, only to have the lights turn out as we entered the parking lot, or to have the "closed" sign hung on the door as we parked. Not exactly Mary and Joseph looking for a room for the night, but a nice reminder (I think) of the special thing that had happened to us with that journey.
I could go on (and have, elsewhere), because I see I have not mentioned the birth of our daughter when doctors told us it would be impossible, nor have I even touched on the improbable way that my wife and I met, or... but I think the point is made: God has been there many times. No, let me correct that: God has been there all the time, but there are times when he has touched my life in such a way as to remind me -- without doubt -- that he is there, crab-walking along on my journey with me.
Reason enough to praise him, I think, even if I didn't live in a universe of wonders.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Go Giants!
by C. David McKirachan
Isaiah 9:2-7
I'm not one to rejoice in the defeat of an adversary -- I get the guilts. Myers-Briggs tells me I'm a "P." That's lingo for somebody who likes to play but doesn't keep score. We "P"s will run into the fence chasing a ball, but we have no idea who's winning. Winning is secondary, or even an impediment to continued play.
I've never been in the armed forces. Guns make me nuts, and I keep worrying about the enemy. Neurotic much. But a line in this passage somehow hooks me: "...as men rejoice when they divide the spoil." There is something ancient and powerful about that image. It's not only about winning. It's the rush of being a victor.
2007 was a big year for me. I got married. Whew! And toward the end of the football season the [New York] Giants began to look like a team. Now I know that the two don't necessarily belong in the same paragraph, but I've been a Giants fan for a long time. I wear shirts. I watch games. I yell at the TV. I pray for the destruction of the Dallas Cowboys and the Philadelphia Eagles. I'm a typical Giants fan. But Big Blue hasn't always been known for being a winning team. Last year they were struggling. And then they began to win. They were the underdogs in every game in the playoffs, and nobody thought they had a prayer in the Super Bowl.
They won. Improbably, in the last couple of minutes, by the skin of their teeth, they won. The maniacs who were at my house for the party went nuts (including my wife, bless her). I'm surprised windows didn't break. Our boys pulled it off.
I learned something that day. I learned that winning is a good thing. I learned that it doesn't necessarily mean you have to gloat or put down the loser. A magnanimous winner is a blessing. And I also got a sense of what Isaiah was talking about when he put that line about rejoicing into the ninth chapter.
Christmas is such an improbable combination of silent wonder and joyful cacophony. We who celebrate it as something other than a materialistic orgy tend to opt for the latter. But consider the angels hanging out of the balcony over the shepherds. They saw and heard the one messenger, "the angel of the Lord" appointed to make the announcement. They kept order as long as they could, and then one of them blew a gasket. They whooped and hollered and sang at the top of their angelic voices. It wasn't about somebody losing. It was about the towering joy that surged through all of reality. "For unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given."
I'm known to be a Christmas freak. And I'm afraid as I mellow into my golden years, it's getting worse. The viral nature of this joy is not something to be managed and handled. It is beyond that. Who would have thought that this was possible? Not me. And I've been cheering for the human race even when they lost. But here, in the dark of night, in the straw of poverty, in the cold of exclusion and embarrassment, time turned on its axis. All of reality shifted. The gift was given. YEAH!!!
So on this Christmas I think everybody should do some dancing. The kind where you raise your hands up in the air and then bend over and wiggle. It puts a whole new slant on "Joy to the World." Boogie, "for unto us a child is born."
And don't forget -- Go Giants!
Merry Christmas.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
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StoryShare, December 21, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"The Jigsaw Puzzle" by Argile Smith
"Unanswered Questions" by Craig Kelly
"Shepherds Camping in the Neighborhood" by Sandra Herrmann
"Walking With the Crabs" by Keith Hewitt
"Go Giants!" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
This is a special time -- the culmination of the Advent period of waiting and the coming of the miracle of the Incarnation. In so many ways, it's a season of wonder -- marveling at the power of the Word made flesh, pondering about the meaning of it all, astonishment at the seeming impossibility of a such a history-shaping event emerging from a tiny stable... and yet, rejoicing with the angels and all of creation at the birth of a little child. In this edition of StoryShare, we offer a mosaic of reflections from a variety of perspectives. Argile Smith likens the emerging clarity of the Messiah's coming to that of a jigsaw puzzle -- at first we are presented with many pieces that don't seem to fit together, but eventually we get the full picture as we see how it all fits together. Craig Kelly portrays the prophet Isaiah's protective older brother, who has many questions about his younger sibling's strange calling. He journeys to see Isaiah and hopes to talk some sense into him -- only to find that he leaves with the most important unanswered question of all echoing through his head. Sandra Herrmann uses her experiences of camping outdoors to remind us of what the shepherds' existence was like and to underline what unlikely candidates they were to worship the newborn King. Keith Hewitt shares his personal odyssey of adopting a child from Russia (including a return on Christmas Eve) to demonstrate the presence of God at all times and places, and David McKirachan wryly compares the overwhelming joy of Christmas to the heartstopping thrill of victory (Go Jesus!). We hope your season is filled with that sense of unbridled joy, and we at CSS wish you the merriest of Christmases.
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The Jigsaw Puzzle
by Argile Smith
Luke 1:26-38; Psalm 89
Laura and her grandmother Nan had been working on the jigsaw puzzle for days. Ever since Laura was old enough to comprehend the challenges of assembling a jigsaw puzzle, she and her grandmother had been working on them together. They shared a common passion for taking the little pieces of strangely cut cardboard and placing each of them in just the right place in order to produce a picture. And, of course, they shared the satisfaction that they had finished a daunting project together, which was always the best part of the entire effort.
As they got better at their joint effort, they came to measure the difficulty of the jigsaw puzzle by the number of pieces in the box and the scene to be reconstructed. Sometimes the scene made the puzzle easy to put together. That's why they really didn't prefer the easy puzzles. They liked the hard-to-figure-out scenes. So far, their favorite scene had been an autumn scene with a covered bridge in the center.
A couple of weeks before the Thanksgiving holiday, Nan found a puzzle at a yard sale that caught her eye. She knew that it would present a huge challenge for her and Laura, but not just because it contained 2,000 pieces. The scene had lots of blue sky with sparse clouds that displayed subtle hues of white and gray mixed together against the mammoth backdrop of various versions of blue. The sky reflected its colors in a mountain lake that covered the bottom of the scene. A thin horizon graced only with a few trees and hills separated the sky from the lake.
Nan knew that she had to have it for yet another reason: the box already had been opened. She didn't know for sure if all of the pieces of the puzzle were actually in the box. Just for good measure, the assurance of the high degree of difficulty was confirmed by a statement that the previous owner made after Nan purchased it. "Good luck on putting that thing together," she said with a note of warning. "I tried for weeks but didn't get anywhere."
She told Laura about the puzzle she had found, and soon the two of them got started on it. They quickly found out that it proved to be just as difficult as Nan had anticipated. Days passed without any sure signs of progress. The music on the radio in Nan's living room had changed from instrumental favorites to Christmas classics before any significant progress could be noticed by either of them.
Listening to the music helped both of them to focus on their work. But one day it distracted Laura as she made another futile attempt at pushing a piece of the puzzle into place so the border of the puzzle would be completed. The song on the radio was "O Little Town of Bethlehem," and the words in the song had gotten next to her.
So she asked Nan, "What's the big deal about Bethlehem and baby Jesus? The whole story sounds like a fairy tale to me."
Nan replied, "You don't think that Jesus was born in Bethlehem?"
"Yes, I think he was, but it's all so random. I mean, out of nowhere a baby was born to a girl who had never -- you know -- and someone said he was God's Son. It's a nice story and all, but I just don't get it."
"I see your point," Nan said. "But actually it was far more than a random act. For generations God had told his people that he would send his Messiah. You can see here and there in the Old Testament little bits and pieces of his promise. When the angel talked to Mary about Jesus' birth, he helped her to see that she would give birth to the Messiah God promised."
Nan went further in her explanation. "You see, it's a lot like this jigsaw puzzle. Some of the pieces don't seem to fit, and we can't yet figure out how it's going to turn out. But one day the pieces will fall into place, and we will get the full picture."
The psalmist hinted at the arrival of the Messiah (Psalm 89), and the angel promised Mary that it would happen (Luke 1:26-38). Advent gives us a chance to see the scene of redemption after all of the pieces have been placed in the puzzle.
Argile Smith is vice president for advancement at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He previously served at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (NOBTS) as a preaching professor, chairman of the Division of Pastoral Ministries, and director of the communications center. While at NOTBS, Smith regularly hosted the Gateway to Truth program on the FamilyNet television network. He has also been the pastor of several congregations in Louisiana and Mississippi. Smith's articles have been widely published in church periodicals, and he is the author or editor of four books.
Unanswered Questions
by Craig Kelly
Romans 16:25-27
Now to him who is able to strengthen you according to my gospel and the preaching of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages but has now been disclosed and through the prophetic writings has been made known to all nations, according to the command of the eternal God, to bring about the obedience of faith -- to the only wise God be glory forevermore through Jesus Christ! Amen.
-- Romans 16:25-27
I must have turned around a dozen times on that trip. I would turn my donkey and start heading back home, but I would maybe get half a mile when my resolve would return, and I'd turn back to continue my journey.
I had better things I could be doing. I had flocks and herds waiting for me back home. My wife and children were home, holding everything together while I was away. There was no reason for me to make this trip.
But he was my little brother.
As the eldest, I guess I've always felt responsible for him. I would always watch out for him, driving away bullies who would taunt him. Even as we grew into adulthood, I still felt the need to look after that brother of mine.
One day, he was the same old person that I had always known. Then, as if in an instant, he had changed. He began talking of visions, of hearing the voice of God himself. At first, I thought he was playing a joke on me -- one in very poor taste, but a joke nevertheless. I just thought he would admit the truth eventually and be done with it.
That day never came. He just kept insisting that he was hearing from God, and that he had messages from him to deliver. Soon, he was out on the street or in the synagogue, speaking to anyone who would listen. People began mocking him, calling him a madman and a fool. It was so shameful, so disgraceful. Even I, his overprotective brother, began to shun him. I couldn't bear the thought of what he was doing to our family. It still shames me to think that I couldn't stand by my own brother.
Over time, there were some who still mocked him, but others started to take what he had to say more seriously. He even started attracting attention from the king himself, and the king was becoming very displeased with what he was hearing. My brother's very life was in danger, and still he continued prophesying.
That's why I had to see him. I had to convince him to stop. I had to try to protect him again.
It took some investigating, but I was able to find out where he was hiding. After two days travel, I finally reached the small village where he was staying. Now I would finally set him straight.
I approached a small house on the outskirts of the village, dreading the upcoming confrontation. As I was admitted and led to the back of the house, I carefully laid out my arguments in my mind as to why this all had to stop.
I entered a small room where I saw my brother hunched over a scroll, writing. As he wrote, he spoke the words softly, as if he were reciting words given by someone else.
"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shined. You have multiplied the nation; you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as they are glad when they divide the spoil. For the yoke of his burden, and the staff for his shoulder, the rod of his oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian. For every boot of the tramping warrior in battle tumult and every garment rolled in blood will be burned as fuel for the fire. For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."
As I heard the words, I just stood in silence. It was beautiful. But where was this coming from? What this really from God? There was nothing like this in all of Israel; how could he just come up with all of this on his own?
I must have made a sound because my brother quickly turned around to see who was in the room. His face brightened when he saw me.
"Joash! Is it really you?"
"It's been a long time, Isaiah."
Quickly he rose to greet me. "Peace be with you, my brother!"
"Peace be with you, brother. I had come to try to dissuade you from your prophesying, but after hearing those words, I found myself just standing there confused. My mind is filled with questions. What is all of this, Isaiah? How are you doing all of this? I can't begin to understand any of it."
Isaiah chuckled. "Well, truth be told, brother, I really don't understand all of it either. There are times when God will speak to me or give me a vision and I will truly understand it -- or at least I will think I truly understand it. Given the corruption in Israel, it makes sense to me that God is angry and that retribution will come. But there are other times when God will simply impress upon me to just write or speak the words he gives me."
"But you write these words as if they have already happened! You write them as if they are as solid and sure as the walls around us! No wonder people think you're mad!" I raised my hands, exasperated.
"But Joash," Isaiah softly replied, "they are real. God himself has spoken. If he has made a promise, we can be as sure of it as we are that the sun will rise in the morning. We must have faith, brother."
"How do you know? What makes you so sure that it is God speaking to you?"
Isaiah paused, considering his response. "I can't give a reasonable answer to that. But as sure as I live and breathe, I know that the God of Israel has spoken to me. I know his words are true."
I sighed and leaned back against the wall. "Fine, Isaiah, fine. Let's say it really is God. What does all of this mean? What child do you speak of? Whose son is he? How is he both son and father? When will all of this happen?" I could have continued, but I think he got the point. My brother just sat and stared back at me. "You can't answer me, can you?"
"No," he replied. "I simply know that it will happen, that there will be a day when all the mysteries will be revealed, when all the questions will be answered. I pray we may live to see it, but even if we don't, I know that day will come."
I knew at that moment that I could say no more to him. There was really nothing more to say. I wished him well and left him to continue his work.
Since then, nothing has changed. We're still under a king who cares more about wealth and power than about God or the people. There has been no son born to lead us into peace; things are the same as always. I think back on Isaiah's words, and for the most part, I dismiss them as the rantings of a man with an overactive imagination. But I can still see his face, his eyes filled with a quiet assurance, and I find myself thinking, "What if he was right?"
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
Shepherds Camping in the Neighborhood
by Sandra Herrmann
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
I love the way Eugene Peterson phrases the situation of the shepherds: "There were sheepherders camping in the neighborhood. They had set night watches over their sheep." It puts their situation in terms many of us understand -- the difficulties of camping out.
In my young adulthood, my husband and I loved to camp. In fact, our honeymoon was an entire summer, between college graduation and the start of graduate school. We had never been camping before, but we decided this was the way we wanted to spend the 12 weeks available. So off we went to learn what we would need: a 10 x 12 cottage-style tent; two air mattresses; two sleeping bags that could also be zipped together for cozy evenings; a camp stove with all the requisite pots, pans, and utensils; a lantern; a large hard-sided cooler with a locking top (in case of bears, raccoons, and other wildlife used to foraging from humans); plates, as well as knives, forks, and spoons; and some good hiking boots. When we had all that, we packed up and headed for the woods.
What I was not prepared for was how difficult it is to keep clean when you're camping. Oh yes, there are shower rooms, a bit shaggy from the constant use, but we had to go to the pump to get drinking water and had to heat water on the stove to do the dishes. And those shower rooms are often cold, so you have to be brave to take off your clothes and step under the water, not to mention drying off afterward.
And then there are the vagaries of weather. At one point, we seemed to be crossing Canada at precisely the same rate as a rather nasty thunderstorm we had picked up in Nova Scotia. For a week we had to fold up a wet tent and load everything into the trailer in varying states of wetness. By the end of the week, the tent was smelling a bit dank. And so were we. Happily, in 20th-century Canada we could (at last!) pull into a laundromat and see to it that everything was clean and dry. And since I had had all the fun I could take for a while, we could also rent a room and sleep on a real bed, and stand under a shower that never ran out of hot water.
That was not the case with the shepherds of Jesus' day. No hot water unless you build a fire. No shower stalls, fluffy towels, and aromatic shampoos. No dryer to see to it that your clothes are both dry and smelling fresh. And that's not to mention the sheep you sleep next to! The lanolin in their wool keeps their skin fairly dry, but wet wool on the hoof has a pungent odor not to be forgotten.
In short, the shepherd's life was not a clean one. There were times when they might camp near a quiet river (sheep are terrified of fast-running water), and then they would put up their tents and spread carpets on the ground, sometimes in layers to cushion them from rocks and clots of clay. Then they might have the opportunity to bathe.
But most likely, the shepherds who showed up at the cave where Mary and Joseph and the baby were sheltered smelled of the wood of their campfires and the garlic with which they seasoned their simple evening meal. Their clothes probably bore the rents and tears from thorn trees in which sheep are easily caught as they graze, not to mention the cockleburs that would adhere to the hems of their robes as they walked along. Probably there were muddy stains from the riverbank and spots from where they accidently dropped a bite or two of food on their clothes. And of course there would be the earthy, even musky, smell of the sheep. All of these smells would be a normal part of life to those who sleep in tents or caves most nights of the year.
Add to that the fact that most shepherds were boys in the age range of 8 to 14. There might be two or three grown men (20-25) to circulate around the sleepy herds, but most of the shepherding was done by boys. Past that age, most boys would be apprenticed out. Some, of course, would learn how to shear sheep and clean the wool for sale. Others would learn how to do the butchering, both to eat and to sell at market. The hardest, muddiest, dirtiest part of making a living with the family herd was left to the boys, who had to learn how to fend off wild dogs and wolves and the various other dangers that threaten disaster for your sheep.
So here come the shepherds -- the dirty, curious, feisty, street-smart kids who mind the sheep, but for whom the invitation of the angels was a powerful draw... leaving the sheep in a cave or stone circle, watched by someone who had to be mature enough to be left behind when this magical event of meeting angels took place. Here they come, pushing and shoving for a glimpse of a baby who is Messiah, the Lord. Here they are, the dirty, the childish, the curious, pushing each other to get to see a girl not much older than they are nurse her baby. What a motley crew. What a choice God made, sending a personal invitation by messengers from Heaven to this bunch.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
Walking With the Crabs
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 96
A long time ago, when I was young, issues of a certain men's magazine used to find their way into my possession on a regular basis. I, of course, cherished them for the interviews, articles, and cartoons. One cartoon that has stuck with me over the decades is set in heaven: there are two angels talking to one another on a street corner, with the pearly gates in the background, and in the foreground there is a man with flowing white hair and beard crab-walking across the street. One angel is saying to the other, "What do you know, He really does move in mysterious ways."
I think of that cartoon every now and then when I contemplate how God has crab-walked through my life.
For instance, after my wife and I had decided to adopt internationally, there was the night -- the culmination of many discussions -- when we went to bed having decided to adopt from India. The next day I had an uneasy feeling that it wasn't the right decision, and that we should go to Russia instead. When I called my wife, reluctantly ready to open the discussion again, her first reaction was to say, "You know, I had the same feeling."
With the decision made, the next step was to sift through dozens of dossiers -- well, summaries -- of children, and watch dozens of them on tape, looking for the right one. Looking at medical histories, ages, and such we were led to three, then to one -- and it was only after we had decided, after we isolated an image from the tape, put it on the refrigerator, and started showing it to people, that someone pointed out how much he looked like our daughter at that age. And as the years have gone by, his similarity to others in the family has only grown.
Then, of course, there was the journey itself -- a comedy of errors, I suppose you could call it, but it would have been a dark comedy, at least at the beginning. Between flights delayed, flights canceled, and a flight to an airport we shouldn't have gone to, it looked very much as though we would not be getting out of the country, not on that trip... but suddenly the ways parted, and an assistant station manager for Aeroflot found a way for us to complete the journey. (This was no small feat, as we had been told for hours that there was nothing anybody could do.) Had we failed to make it then, the chain of events that followed in the beginning of 2000 might have made it impossible for us to get there, and bring our son home, for a year or more... and a year is a long time to wait in a Russian orphanage.
Instead, though, we were back from Russia on Christmas Eve of 1999 -- home in time to drive from restaurant to restaurant, fast-food place to fast-food place, only to have the lights turn out as we entered the parking lot, or to have the "closed" sign hung on the door as we parked. Not exactly Mary and Joseph looking for a room for the night, but a nice reminder (I think) of the special thing that had happened to us with that journey.
I could go on (and have, elsewhere), because I see I have not mentioned the birth of our daughter when doctors told us it would be impossible, nor have I even touched on the improbable way that my wife and I met, or... but I think the point is made: God has been there many times. No, let me correct that: God has been there all the time, but there are times when he has touched my life in such a way as to remind me -- without doubt -- that he is there, crab-walking along on my journey with me.
Reason enough to praise him, I think, even if I didn't live in a universe of wonders.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Go Giants!
by C. David McKirachan
Isaiah 9:2-7
I'm not one to rejoice in the defeat of an adversary -- I get the guilts. Myers-Briggs tells me I'm a "P." That's lingo for somebody who likes to play but doesn't keep score. We "P"s will run into the fence chasing a ball, but we have no idea who's winning. Winning is secondary, or even an impediment to continued play.
I've never been in the armed forces. Guns make me nuts, and I keep worrying about the enemy. Neurotic much. But a line in this passage somehow hooks me: "...as men rejoice when they divide the spoil." There is something ancient and powerful about that image. It's not only about winning. It's the rush of being a victor.
2007 was a big year for me. I got married. Whew! And toward the end of the football season the [New York] Giants began to look like a team. Now I know that the two don't necessarily belong in the same paragraph, but I've been a Giants fan for a long time. I wear shirts. I watch games. I yell at the TV. I pray for the destruction of the Dallas Cowboys and the Philadelphia Eagles. I'm a typical Giants fan. But Big Blue hasn't always been known for being a winning team. Last year they were struggling. And then they began to win. They were the underdogs in every game in the playoffs, and nobody thought they had a prayer in the Super Bowl.
They won. Improbably, in the last couple of minutes, by the skin of their teeth, they won. The maniacs who were at my house for the party went nuts (including my wife, bless her). I'm surprised windows didn't break. Our boys pulled it off.
I learned something that day. I learned that winning is a good thing. I learned that it doesn't necessarily mean you have to gloat or put down the loser. A magnanimous winner is a blessing. And I also got a sense of what Isaiah was talking about when he put that line about rejoicing into the ninth chapter.
Christmas is such an improbable combination of silent wonder and joyful cacophony. We who celebrate it as something other than a materialistic orgy tend to opt for the latter. But consider the angels hanging out of the balcony over the shepherds. They saw and heard the one messenger, "the angel of the Lord" appointed to make the announcement. They kept order as long as they could, and then one of them blew a gasket. They whooped and hollered and sang at the top of their angelic voices. It wasn't about somebody losing. It was about the towering joy that surged through all of reality. "For unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given."
I'm known to be a Christmas freak. And I'm afraid as I mellow into my golden years, it's getting worse. The viral nature of this joy is not something to be managed and handled. It is beyond that. Who would have thought that this was possible? Not me. And I've been cheering for the human race even when they lost. But here, in the dark of night, in the straw of poverty, in the cold of exclusion and embarrassment, time turned on its axis. All of reality shifted. The gift was given. YEAH!!!
So on this Christmas I think everybody should do some dancing. The kind where you raise your hands up in the air and then bend over and wiggle. It puts a whole new slant on "Joy to the World." Boogie, "for unto us a child is born."
And don't forget -- Go Giants!
Merry Christmas.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
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StoryShare, December 21, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
